One in the Chamber: Fallout
by fallout.edits
Summary: When Will "inherits" a large envelope of cash, there is more that meets the eye when he finds the bill is tied to powers greater than himself, and his struggle takes a turn, for the worst.


Freeside. A filthy slum of crime and hunger. Below its dim streetlamps, pistols spit fire into the stale night air, greasers wearing wrinkled leather jackets smoke the glowing buts of cigarettes, and men stalk around alleys in the shadows of faint illumination cast by fires burning dimly in rusted barrels. The beaming strobes and cascading skyscrapers of the New Vegas Strip peek over the barbed-wire rubble walls that surround the hoods of Freeside, most notably a dradle-shaped building known as the 'Lucky 38.'

A younger Freesider, by the name of Will walked down the torn and littered streets of the Freeside Outskirts, a dark and abandoned chunk of the city. Four-story high buildings stretched block to block, not a light in them to pierce their thickly boarded windows. The buildings cement was crumbling, and huge avalanches of rubble were gathered in most alleys, full of twisted and warped steel beams. Papers and old road signs were torn and bent along the cracked, gaping pavement. Pale moonlight beamed down on the neighborhood, and left the shadowy ghost of a glow. The outskirts were two-thirds of freeside, and inhabited by only ruthless packs of thugs and the occasional raider.

Will walked down the sketchy roads with his ten-millimeter pistol clutched in his fist. He walked quickly, hearing the faint shouts of people. Upon rounding the corner of a weathered complex, he saw moving neon lights. He stowed out of an alleyway, and peered across Northern freeside. The same buildings in the outskirts stretched block to block, except every so often a shop or two would be inhabited. Down the road from where he was standing he saw the illuminated banister of the Atomic Wrangler, and beyond that, the crooked beaming sign of the Silver Rush weapons shop. People lined the roads, most of them Kings gangers, distinguished by their faded logo sewn to the back of their beaten leather jackets. Others included hired Mercs, a common profession, and NCR squatters, all mostly dressed in grimy rags and clutching empty bottles of whiskey.

Will walked along down the shadowed road, passing some filthy beggars, which he blew past with no hesitation. Down the road he noticed Dixon, a local drug dealer, beneath a flickering street light, passing a stained brown bag to a weary-eyed local, who in return passed Dixon a crumpled bill. Will's face streaked with few beads of sweat, and the gun in his hand shook slightly with each step. Will glanced as casually as he could around him, to ensure he was not seen as to attract attention. He abruptly turned down an alleyway, and noticed a figure walking away from him, deeper into the darkness. The man's long trench coat was flipped up at the collar, and the faint ember of a cigarette dangled off his lips.

Shrouded in darkness, Will approached the figure at a faster pace. His hand shook more and more violently, and more sweat poured down his forehead, his breath turning to ice. He raised his arm and extended it forward, hesitating, his trembling finger locked onto the trigger with a firm, almost clenching grip. His eyes veered with reluctance. Suddenly, as if a purifying dose of adrenaline ran through him, Will spat three shots into the shrowded man's torso. Crisp, staccato gunfire rung and echoed, making Will's ears retract. Will's face tightened slightly with flinch after each shot. The gun jolted with recoil, popping Will's wrist and elbow to snap back. The brass bullet casings ringed and clattered to the ground. The man tripped over himself, and collapsed, sprawling onto the graveled pavement.

Will shakily lowered his pistol, running his other hand nervously through his squalid, crimson hair. He peered behind himself, where the street appeared vacant. He then turned back to the corpse of the man he had shot, where it laid still. Will approached him, gripping him by the shoulder and tipping him onto his back to observe the body. Only one bullet had made an exit wound, where hot blood ran down the fabric of his cloak and his flesh was torn and gnarled into a roguish patch. His long black jacket was caked in the sandy mud that shallowly lined the ally, and was clearly creased and faded with age. Will noticed a black vest beneath the coat, which was lined with pouches. Will's eyes creased with interest as he turned each pouch inside out, noticing nothing on the first two pouches he had investigated. As he reached into the third pouch, the felt the crinkling of paper against his fingertips.

He reached in and pulled out a beaten rectangular slip, an envelope of sorts. He opened it up to find the faded greenish-yellow of NCR dollar bills, each marked with a '100' on the side. There were numerous amounts of them, which fattened the envelope to inches. "Oh shit," will mumbled, peeking his head up to ensure no one had spotted him. Will paused suddenly, then frantically stuffed the pouch of bills into his stitched shirt pocket.


End file.
